


Dark Objects

by TeddyRadiator



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:40:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24235924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeddyRadiator/pseuds/TeddyRadiator
Summary: A series of drabbles written for the Dark Arts Last Drabble Writer Standing Challenge, way back in 2011, I think. I came in second, and felt myself lucky. The first story was written LONG before Fanstastic Beasts, so I felt a bit skeevy when I saw the film.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	1. The Basilisk

“Open.” The venom poured from the fang into the vial, and Tom Riddle applied the stopper. The giant basilisk looked at him and preened, as if she knew her Master was pleased.

Tom turned to his lover and silently gave her the bottle. The venom shimmered iridescent in the glass. “This is the last component for the ritual.” He looked at her with fervent elation. “Tonight, all our labours will be rewarded. Tonight, all our dreams become reality.”

The young woman shivered with joy and desire. For weeks now they had planned and searched, and now the time had come. He had promised her eternal youth and beauty, and he kept all of his promises. They were to become immortal together.

Two drops of venom were initially placed into the cauldron, along with the ingredients they’d painstakingly gathered. Some of the components had to be taken with force in the end, and the blood spilt during their acquisition was added to the potion to strengthen it.

She stirred the wooden paddle counter-clockwise as Tom re-read the ancient text for the Eternus Videcor potion and its accompanying ritual. He smiled as he chanted the rite which granted them eternal life and youth, and as his lovely bride removed her robe, Tom gazed at her in undisguised desire.

“Soon, my love,” he smiled, as she stepped into the swirling cauldron, shuddering at the sensation of being surrounded by so much power, so much darkness. She closed her eyes as her lover removed his robes, and took his swollen member in hand.

Tom chanted the ancient words, pronouncing them with skill and precision. As he stroked his rigid cock, he envisioned his lover, eternally beautiful, standing proudly at his side as his powers manifested.

Lesser mortals would kneel at his feet in reverent adoration. They would worship him, Tom Riddle; and through him, they would worship her as well.

The image of these wizards and witches bowing to him was enough to tip him over the edge. Tom cried out in rapture as he came, spraying his semen onto the creamy breasts of his beautiful companion.

As she cried out in ecstasy, Tom gasped the final words of the ritual, pouring the remainder of the basilisk’s venom onto her waiting body. It entwined and partnered his issue in rivulets, over her sweat-sheened torso.

She was the last ingredient.

When the ritual reached its climax, she rose from the cauldron, flawless, staggeringly beautiful. She looked at him, uncertain and full of confused doubt.

“Did it work? Oh, yes,” he sighed, ecstatically. “You are perfection.” He held out his arms. “Come to me my love, my beauty.”

She caressed him, and he shivered. “My Nagini.”


	2. The Lost Diadem

She stood on the broken battlements, and looked out onto a dawn that was washed in the blood of the innocent and damned alike, and wondered what it felt like to be alive on this last, terrible night.

“It is done. He is gone. The Light has prevailed.” The voice behind her was as familiar as her own, as old as time. She could not remember when she didn’t know the Baron; she could not remember her own bloody death. She only remembered that she died in a violent bath of jealousy and thirst for power, and before she could celebrate her freedom from her murderer, he had joined her in this eternity, after taking his own life. The Baron had always been a selfish bugger.

She was at least happy that the Baron had murdered her while she was still young enough to be considered a lovely ghost. She had always pitied the hags and stumpy old men ghosted at ripe old ages, the best of their lives already behind them.

A small frown marred her lovely features. Helena Ravenclaw turned to the Baron. “Did they find Mother’s diadem? They asked me, the Living Ones. I told them where it might be found.”

The Baron glided up close, and she recoiled slightly. If they had been alive, she would have felt his hot breath on her shoulder. “It was destroyed, along with the other trinkets. Along with his empty, soulless carcass.”

Helena had never heard him sound so bitter, even in life.

He raged, “At what cost? My Slytherins, taught to hate in the name of purity! Babes in a Children’s Crusade, fighting a war their mothers and fathers should have finished years ago? Death, greedily charging through the houses of our Founders, searching for the pieces of his soul?”

It didn’t touch her. It shouldn’t touch him. They were, after all, spirits of age and maturity. Living had been a pastime so many years ago she could not remember what it felt like to be hungry, or come panting beneath a man… or die. Why should he?

“You sound angry, Baron,” she murmured serenely.

“I am angry, Helena!” the Baron spat. He gestured. “Look around you! Look at the waste! They have life and love and passion to get, and what do they do? They squander it, fighting meaningless battles for pointless glory! They died for nothing more than a trinket, like your mother’s crown of bloody thorns!”

He wept. “My Slytherins! Why were you lost to the Darkness? Have I taught you nothing?”

Helena looked at the man who had once hoped to be her lover, her husband. “You taught them how to kill, dear Baron.”


	3. The Wand of Destiny

_Are we gods? Do we create new worlds with every blink of our jaded eyes? Or are we merely men of worth, who delve in matters of arcane wizardry to illicit love from those we covet?_

Severus wants to ask the Wand these questions. They are spinning through Severus’ mind as he watches the Elder Wand, rolling between Lord Voldemort’s long fingers; coaxing it to do His bidding.

The Wand of Destiny; Severus believes its destiny and his have always been entwined, that this evening must have been imprinted on his brain the night he was born.

Severus once loved his Master as much as he hated Him, and hated Him as much as he feared Him. Now it is no longer a matter of what is Light, who is Dark, what will triumph, who will fail. Severus watches the Wand; that is the only thing that matters. It has summoned him to his death.

Severus has come here tonight to die. He stopped blaming others for his misfortunes. He has stopped wishing on the moon that is Lily. He no longer wishes he had not killed his only true friend. He no longer despises the boy Potter, destined to die with him.

Severus knows he was used by everyone, just like this beautiful Elder Wand: a scepter to bear homage to the new leader; a weapon to smite the enemy, a treasure to be desired. Severus, too, has been all those things.

Tonight, like Severus, the Wand is also a murderer.

Lying on the floor of the Shrieking Shack, Severus feels shriven, satisfied. The agony is over; he had been so frightened, but he is no longer afraid. The beautiful Elder Wand of Destiny, that Sword of Gideon, has enabled Severus to meet Death. He feels the gentle brush of angel’s wings that signal forgiveness; he is no longer alone.

Severus feels purified by his death. He barely remembers purity. They had never shared more than a passing acquaintance. But death feels clean, and within that death he sees his mother, dark-haired and smiling, washing him tenderly. He sees Lily, bathing him with her tears. Finally, Albus, holding him aloft. Severus, the acceptable lamb. All welcome him.

It is fitting. He deposed the King and took Excalibur; it is only right that the same weapon grant Severus the death he wanted so badly. Love, acceptance, happiness, beauty. These belong to him now, and they welcome him with a sound like a benediction.

His useless body is taken away. He sees genuine tears shed for him. In that soft light of forever, Severus faintly hears the words used to describe him now; brave, strong, dutiful, redeemed. Like the Elder Wand.


	4. The Hand of Glory

After Snape killed Dumbledore, I thought my family’s ordeal was over. I should have known the nightmare had just begun. Father returned from Azkaban a broken man. We were royalty in exile.

A month after the funeral, Aunt Bella took me to Hogwarts. “You owe the Dark Lord your very existence!” she hissed, shoving a burlap sack into my hands. “If you wish to reclaim our honour, you’ll take it tonight.” She cackled. “Don’t come home empty handed!”

So this was my redemption; petty thievery. I opened the sack in the darkness, and stifled a moan of horror. Within, lay a Hand of Glory. I couldn’t look at it without gagging. It smelt and felt like a rancid Cadbury Flake. To think – as a young man, I’d coveted one.

Blimey, they don’t half work! I entered the Headmaster’s study without so much as alerting a passing portrait, ghost, or Mr. Filch. I saw my target immediately. Shining in the sickly, insinuating glow of the Hand was the Sword of Gryffindor; my offering to restore the family honour.

“Greetings, Draco.” I jumped with an embarrassing yelp and almost dropped my grisly torch. Dumbledore’s portrait smiled benevolently.

“Bugger off,” I muttered. He chuckled.

“Draco, I know why you’re here. You don’t have to do this. Bravery is often defined not by what we do, but rather by what we don’t do.”

“Shut up!” I screamed. “My family needs – “ I sobbed. “My family is everything!”

“Is that why Bella sent you to do her dirty work?” He countered, gently. “ _And_ enlisted me to give you a helping hand?”

I froze. With a pounding heart, I looked at the Hand of Glory. There it was; the tell-tale curse-rot that had blackened Dumbledore’s fingers right down to the wrist. I must have seen it a hundred times last year in school.

I flung his hand away, weeping; my disgrace was complete.

As I cried, Dumbledore comforted me. “It’s alright, Draco. _Listen_ to me.”

I turned to him. He smiled. “Of course you must help your family. Therefore, I will help you.”

Later, I tossed the ornate sword to Aunt Bella. She held it aloft, bellowing triumphantly, “Behold the gift I have obtained for the Dark Lord’s pleasure!” Merlin, she’s mad as a _spoon._

Father looked at my hand, particularly the finger that had worn the Malfoy Sigil. He loved that ring. He gave it to me the day he was sent to Azkaban. No one but him had noticed its absence.

His gaze shifted to the transfigured sword. Instantly, he spotted the Malfoy emerald, embedded into the hilt. He smiled, and I knew I had made him proud.

“Well done, Draco,” he whispered.


	5. The Diary

Let me make one thing clear. I am a Malfoy. As such, I am not interested in Potions, Transfiguration, Arithmancy, or even the woolly crest of Divination.

Power and plotting; now, that is a form of magic that suits me. We Malfoys have conjured power for generations; I’m merely the consummation of its brightest and best. In the Wizarding world of the elite, I am without peer. I have a wife who worships at my feet; I have a son who promises to be almost as handsome and clever as I.

I’m entitled.

In reality, Lord Voldemort is nothing more than a jumped-up little half-breed, much like my friend Severus; eager, gauche, thirsting for fame. In terms of intelligence and charisma, nothing more than shit on my shoe.

But he has power and ego aplenty. That I can play with, massage, mold like putty. He wants to scourge the world; recreate a Pureblood’s paradise, and rid it of Mudblood filth like, well, like himself.

I have read his diary. Compelling reading. To say the little scrote has ambition is like saying Severus needs a little shampoo. He’s too ill-bred to realise that when you have connections, you don’t need ambition. You just need an in.

I am that in. I am merely the Machiavellian serpent tempting Eve with the Wizarding world.

For so long, the Mudbloods and their craving for a bit of Pureblood trim have whittled us down to nothing. Traitors like Arthur Weasley and their ilk love cavorting with Mudbloods. Isn’t it fitting, then, that Arthur’s precious progeny will facilitate the rise of the Dark Lord again?

Merlin, I love being a Malfoy.


	6. The Dark Mirror

Gellert Grindelwald often wondered what life would have been like had he never fallen in love with Albus Dumbledore. In the end, it destroyed him, but there were times it was as close to perfection as he would ever know. He would always love Albus, he of the lovely, long red hair Gellert so loved to stroke.

You could say that Albus had – what were they calling it these days? Contributed to the delinquency of a minor. Actually, it was with the minor’s full consent. They didn’t burden themselves with details like that back then.

It was Albus’ doing, sneaking them into Hogwarts. Dumbledore was newly graduated, and Gellert was nothing more than a wild sixteen-year-old dropout, ready for any piece of action, and lovely, long-limbed Albus had given him that in spades.

“I have something to show you,” Albus said, his breath warm and excited against Gellert’s ear. They wandered down to the deepest recesses of the castle, and with a flourish, Albus flung the canvas from the mirror.

Gellert stared into it until his eyes almost fell out. Albus watched the younger man intently; saw his cock rise, watched it twitch and spasm, stain his robes, and still the boy stared into the mirror.

“Gellert, what in Merlin’s name do you see?” Albus demanded, aching to touch the robe, to sniff it, feel the boy’s spunk in his eager fingers.

“I see us, Albus,” Gellert whispered ecstatically. “We are the rulers of the world! Even the gods bow down to us!”

He finally tore his gaze from the mirror, his eyes blazing, full of beautiful, hopeful glee. “Does this mirror foretell the future?”

He ran into Albus’ arms. “Will we truly reign over the Muggle born and Wizard folk alike? Rule over them for the greater good of all?” He was almost in tears. “Tell me, my lover, it this mirror showing our future together?”

Albus, his heart pounding, his eighteen-year-old self burning, desperate for Gellert, wrapped his fingers in Gellert’s blond ringlets. “Yes! It does, my love!”

He lay the mirror down and they crouched over it. Albus deflowered Gellert’s sweet, unfurled arsehole, watching himself in the mirror. Gellert came, roaring with the triumph of their destiny.

Truth came later.

Gellert thought they would rule together. In the end, Albus banished him, leaving Gellert to rule the world of his own making. Nurmengard. That gruesome son-of-a Mudblood Voldemort found him there.

“Come, boy. If you think you’re Wizard enough,” Grindelwald cackled, beckoning the upstart.

The half-breed Riddle smiled hellishly as he cast the Avada Kedavra. Gellert felt the briefest moment of agony, then nothing… nothing but the voice he had missed all those years, welcoming him home.


End file.
